Stephen Leather - Nightfall

Nightingale thought of asking for a Corona but decided against it. He wanted something with more of a kick. ‘A Bell’s,’ he said. ‘With ice.’

‘On the rocks, as our American cousins like to say.’ The publican pushed a glass against the optic. ‘You’re not from around here.’

‘Just visiting a friend,’ said Nightingale, as the man raised the glass against the optic a second time. ‘Just a single, I’m driving.’

‘It’s happy hour,’ said the publican. ‘Buy one get one free. BOGOF.’ He put the glass in front of Nightingale. ‘Be happy.’

‘Do I look happy?’

‘You look morose,’ said the publican. ‘But everyone does these days. With three million unemployed, house prices halving, the pound in a slump, there’s not much to smile about. Which is why we’ve got the happy hour. We’re doing our bit.’

Nightingale raised his glass to him. ‘Cheers,’ he said. He sipped his whisky, reached into his pocket for his cigarettes and put the packet on the bar. ‘Every time I have a drink, I want to smoke. Reflex action,’ he said.

‘Me too,’ said the publican. ‘Still can’t get used to not being able to smoke in my own bloody pub. I lost half my trade when the ban came in. The bloody nanny state, it is.’

‘And for what?’ said Nightingale. ‘It doesn’t save lives because everyone dies. Even if you never smoke a single cigarette in your whole life, you still die.’

‘It’s not about saving lives, it’s about controlling the way we live,’ said the publican. He helped himself to a brandy and clinked his glass against Nightingale’s. ‘You know, if we’re not careful, the bastards’ll be banning alcohol next. Then where will we be?’

‘Do you ever think about the meaning of life?’ Nightingale asked, as he swirled the ice around his glass.

‘It’s the number forty-two, innit?’ said the publican. ‘According to that movie, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Whatsit.’

‘The galaxy,’ said Nightingale. ‘Nah, forty-two was the answer to the ultimate question. It wasn’t the meaning of life.’

‘Ah, well, now you’re asking,’ said the publican. ‘The meaning of life? It’s got to be kids, right? That’s all you leave behind, other than your debts. Your kids. Your DNA.’ He leaned forward. ‘My advice to you, have lots of sex and produce lots of kids. That bin Laden chappie, you know how many kids he’s got? Twenty-six. Twenty-bloody-six. Doesn’t matter who you are or what you do, good or bad, it’s your kids that live on. Your kids and their kids and their kids’ kids.’ He jutted his chin. ‘I’ve got four, and three grandkids. Two of my lads moved to Australia and I don’t see them much, but that’s not the point. They’re the meaning of my life.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You got kids?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘Nah.’

‘There’s your answer, then. That’s why you’re morose. Kids give your life meaning.’ He grinned. ‘Mind you, they also suck it out of you, but that’s another story.’

Nightingale drained his glass and smiled. Maybe the publican was right. Maybe children were the answer. But it had been three years since he’d had a regular girlfriend and they weren’t part of his immediate game plan.

‘You’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale,’ said the publican, his voice cold and lifeless.

Nightingale’s glass slipped from his fingers and smashed on the floor. ‘How do you know my name?’ he said.

The publican frowned. ‘What?’

‘How do you know my name?’

‘Squire, I asked if you wanted another drink. There’s no need to start smashing my glasses.’

‘You said I was going to hell.’

‘You’re hearing things. I asked if you wanted a refill but it looks like you’ve had enough to drink already.’

Nightingale bent down to pick up the shards.

‘Leave it!’ said the publican. ‘Health and safety. Customers aren’t allowed to touch broken glass. The brewery’d have my job if they saw you do that.’

‘Sorry,’ said Nightingale. He reached for his wallet. ‘I’ll pay for the damage.’

‘Forget it.’

Nightingale held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a rough couple of days.’ He took a step back, turned and left the pub. The terrier lifted its head and growled at him, then settled back on the floor.

Jenny was tapping away on her keyboard when Nightingale walked in. ‘There are some sick bunnies out there, Jack,’ she said.

‘Tell me about it,’ said Nightingale. He flopped onto his chair and raised his eyebrows expectantly. ‘Coffee?’

‘I’d love one,’ she said.

‘I shall miss your sense of humour when I’m burning in hell.’

‘That’s not very funny, Jack,’ she said.

‘It’s the best I can do at this time in the morning,’ he said. ‘What did you mean about sick bunnies?’

Jenny nodded at her computer screen. ‘Do you know that you can buy a copy of The Satanic Bible on Amazon? With next-day delivery. And if you type “selling your soul to the devil” into Google you get more than a hundred and forty thousand sites? What sad bastards would want to know how to sell a soul to the devil?’

‘My father, for one,’ said Nightingale.

‘Then there’s ChurchOfSatan dot com. The guys there certainly believe in the devil.’

‘There’s a lot of rubbish on the Internet,’ said Nightingale. ‘Fifty per cent is plain wrong and ten per cent is malicious.’

‘Those are official statistics, are they?’

‘I read it on Wikipedia,’ said Nightingale. ‘How’s my coffee coming along?’

Jenny flounced over to the machine.

‘How was your weekend?’ he asked.

‘We had a great time,’ she said. ‘Bit of riding, bit of fishing, bit of shooting. Girl stuff.’

‘I hope I wasn’t too rude to her. I just didn’t feel like opening up to a complete stranger.’

‘Jack, you don’t open up to anyone,’ said Jenny. ‘You’re the original closed book, you are. But no is the answer to your question, she understood why you were so defensive and she wasn’t offended by it. She’s worked in Broadmoor so she can take care of herself.’

‘She seemed a smart cookie, that’s for sure.’

‘Maybe she could help, Jack. You can’t remember what happened with Simon Underwood. And the other times when you heard people saying you were going to hell. She could get you to relive those moments, and find out for sure what they said.’

‘I’m not sure I want to remember,’ said Nightingale.

‘Nonsense.’

‘Really? And what if she makes me remember that I actually did push Simon Underwood through the window? Do I turn myself in? Maybe I’m better off not remembering.’

Jenny didn’t reply.

‘And what if I’ve been imagining all these people telling me I’m going to hell? Then I’m crazy, right? Crazy, and maybe a serial killer. Hand on heart, I think I’m better off not knowing.’

‘But she might prove to you that you didn’t kill Underwood, have you considered that?

Nightingale shrugged.

‘Please, Jack, give Barbara a chance. She’s very good at what she does, I promise.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Nightingale.

‘That means no,’ said Jenny.

‘It means I’ll think about it,’ said Nightingale. ‘Now, can we change the subject, please?’

‘Okay, fine,’ said Jenny. ‘What did you get up to over the weekend?’

Nightingale explained about the phone call from Harry Wilde, meeting Alfie Tyler and driving to Wivenhoe to meet Sebastian Mitchell.

Jenny glared at him. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me any of this.’

‘I’m telling you now.’

‘Jack…’ Words failed her. ‘You should have called me.’